L.C. Hill

I open a new book, and I immediately begin to fan through all the pages and listen to them snap away from each other. I watch the words go by in a blur like those movies I used to make on a pad of paper when I was a child. I’d hold the end of it with my thumb, the images moving as one, revealing an entire story one page at a time.

I open it in half, and then in thirds, and then in fifths, bending it open and stretching its rigid spine until it loosens up. I run my hand down the middle, both sides of the book on the palm of one hand. I run it over and over on the pages at each fraction until it is soft, until it doesn’t take so much to open it, and my hand burns a bit from the friction on my skin.

I force it to close after forcing it open, and I push it so that it will lie flat again—like it hasn’t felt the air on its pages now, like those pages haven’t been changed by my touch. It will never lie flat again. I hug it tightly to my chest to feel the bulk of it, the bulk that’s permanent from being made un-new.

I realize I do the same with people.

L.C. Hill

There’s a place in between peace and loneliness. I linger there. There is nothing unhappy about this place.

My dog hangs out there with me. We sit on the couch together. I drift off to sleep sometimes. So does he. More than I do. Often my foot is tucked near his. His eyes flutter open briefly as I wrap my toes around his tail. Then they close again.

There’s sunshine with occasional rain. Not thunderstorms. There’s just the patter of drops on the window air conditioner and a temporary darkening of the concrete. But that dries in the heat, even if the sun can’t push through the clouds.

Time moves slowly there, and I dream of what’s next. I tell him what the plans are. He briefly taps his tail on the floor at my words. I type a bit. He chews on his bone. He sits next to his bowl and takes his time with each bite. He has never been one for hurrying a good meal. We are the same in that way. We are the same in a lot of ways, but his patience—with me, with how slowly the earth rotates on its axis—has always run deeper than mine.

The sun sinks. I’m not ready for it.

This is Sunday.